ours is the fury
by lydiamartins
Summary: You're not a Stark; this isn't your house to protect; this isn't your duty; this isn't your house; you'll never be a Stark; you're not one of us—they're all one and the same and the words from Robb hurt the most. -— theon greyjoy, happy birthday susanna!


_a/n:_ happy 16th birthday, susanna! i'm really sorry about how short this is and i basically got it from parts of the books, parts of the tv show (i'm only on s1ep8 so) and youtube character study videos; this is a combination of books and tv show but mostly from the books. you're a really great person and have a wonderful wonderful birthday, c:

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Theon, seven years of age, stands on iron floors—

Balon Greyjoy, the Ninth of His Name Since the Grey King, Balon the Blessed, the Kraken King—he stares down at his youngest son, gaunt with hard face, black eyes searching for flaws and imperfections, with long grey hair flecked with white, hanging past mid-back; his eyes flicker uncompromisingly, a hint of quarrel embedded within them. "You know our words," he drawls out.

"We do not sow," Theon recites, seeking acceptance, but never receiving.

"Good boy," his father mutters back to him, cold and withdrawn.

The King of the Iron Islands leaves his children, and Rodrik, eldest of the Greyjoy children, one day to be the King (can't be, can't be, a drunken idiot can't be a King, now can he?) takes a gulp of alcohol; "You're not supposed to be doing that," Theon, seven years of age, a boy of morals and good intentions, says. "You can't be drinking, especially not before inspections from the King."

"Well," jeers Maron, gaunt face and cunning eyes, "Nobody's going to tell Father, now are they?" He looks around to the nearly empty room; Asha, in the back corner, lean and long-legged and fairly unattractive, pretends not to hear, instead staring out the window as though there is more to life than this, but they are the Greyjoys, and this is all they are reduced to (for now), an empire on the far-off Islands.

Theon wishes to be ten.

.

Except his tenth year is the worst of them all—

It is over the year 289AL, six years of Robert Baratheon (ours is the fury, are their words) has perched upon the Iron Throne, drunken and wasted half of the time—Theon stands outside of his father's chambers and hears his words. "The King—he's still insecure, you see. He lacks support among the nobility, he might not have the strong support of the other lords a Targaryen king would have; we can defeat him at sea."

He tells this to a small council of men, among them Rodrik and Marron, Marron only two years older than Theon; so, they muster up the forces of the Houses of the West, and oh, what a glorious feat it is.

The Starks and the Lannisters and the Tullys and their bannermen, all assembled under the control of their individual commanders, gold and scarlet running through their veins, nothing of stardust and dreams—these are soldiers of summer, Theon thinks, looking upon the enemy from beneath the grasp of a nurse (too young, always too young).

Theon is not allowed to be in battle, to be in the vicinity of the war (he is not old enough) and hears news of the burning of the Lannister fleet, surprise attacks upon the flagships of the Lannisters, the victory at Lannisport; and then the counterattack by the Iron Throne, the death of Prince Rodrik and Prince Marron, and the victory of Robert Baratheon who remains upon the Iron Throne.

He feels nothing for the deaths of his brothers—Rodrik was an alcoholic with a penchant for violence, Maron was composed of cruel japes and compulsive lies, and no moment of sadness (weakness) when they are cemented beneath the ground, lying entwined with their ancestors, left to rot as the seasons change, and the long summer moves forward. Balon Greyjoy returns home, defeated, gaunt features extinguished; burn marks stretch across his face, and the power of the Iron Islands fallen. "I will give you to the Starks, boy," King Greyjoy (not so much of a King anymore, are you?) declares.

Theon, a boy of ten, does not argue—he complies with the orders, but as he leaves the Islands, his father reminds him, "Theon Greyjoy—you are the rightful heir of the Iron Islands; iron runs through your bloods. You are strong. You are brave. Do not forget that and become weak like the rest of them." Theon blinks and leaves the only home he has ever known, a smile on his face—he is Theon Greyjoy, he will not forget he is Ironborn.

There is a boy named Robb, Robb Stark—the eldest of the Starks, the one that everybody looks up to, even if they wouldn't admit it—and he laughs, and Theon feels the urge to laugh back. The Starks, with their humble attitude (he thinks they are the only one who do not boast and brag in their motto, and they are stupid for that; threats are words, and words are the best weapon of them all) and their somewhat submissive actions, are not a place that he could call home.

.

Except words aren't the best—

(_You're not a Stark; this isn't your house to protect; this isn't your duty; this isn't your house; you'll never be a Stark; you're not one of us_—they're all one and the same and the words from Robb hurt the most.)

Swords and arrows break bones, and inflicting physical damage is the surest way to ensure supremacy.

He could never be a Stark—he was Ironborn; it is what he was meant to be, born in the Iron Islands, harsh and bleak collections of forbidding islands off the west coast of Wesperos, stretching from the castle of Pyke to the islands; a golden kraken on a black field is embedded upon their clothes, and they will not fall prey to the saying of 'you sow what you reap'. They do not sow.

Robb gathers together the people of the North—he stands above them, their leader (for the time), and looks almost glorious; in the aftermath of it all, Theon tells him, "I could never be a Stark." _As you keep reminding me. _"But your father raised me to be an honoroable man. We can avenge him together."

("Am I your brother, now and always?" The words are hesitant and heavy. "Now and always.")

.

He swears his loyalty to Robb, but his loyalty is of House Greyjoy—he is not one of the Starks, he is Iron-Born; he is not the man he has been pretending to be, yet Theon has gone too far to pretend to be anything else. Theon looks upon the Iron Islands, standing at the head of the ship, the wind ruffling through his air, ripples skimming across the otherwise tranquil surface of the water—the Sun does not shine above head, because these are the Iron Islands; they are not children, they are not soldiers of summer, they are battle veterans, bones and muscles and blood all of iron.

Theon races across the shore, cape of thin thread billowing behind him; the emblem of House Stark on his shoulder but House Greyjoy engraved inside of his bones. He enters the castle hesitantly, greeted with silence and gaunt faces; his father is composed of longer hair, greying and whitening from age, and speaks with a voice of gravel. "Nine years, is it? They took a frightened boy and what have they given back?"

They are not the words Theon has been expecting, and wonders if contacting his father in the first place was really necessary—the Greyjoys do not show sentiment, do not show victory, do not show emotions. They are hard and iron, and perhaps, his time with the Starks has changed his opinion about being cold. "A man," he replies, his heart pounding, blood racing. "Your son and your heir."

"Well then, where have you been all this time?"

"I've been the ward of House Stark. You gave me to them."

"Ward?" Asha—sister, dear, not so much sister; he looks away and knows that the Greyjoys are all trick and cunnings, and the minds of his elder brothers lives on in his sister. "That's a nice word for it."

"The Starks have made you theirs, haven't they?" Balon Greyjoy stands in front of Asha, eyes strong and cunning; they stare down at him, beady little things narrowed, and his sister circles around him, as though he is a victim or a dog; they treated him like a dog, all those years before. Given away to the Starks like a piece of property.

His hand clenches. "My blood is iron; I am Iron-born, father. I am not a Stark. I am a Greyjoy." But not quite; Theon has never been quite one of the Greyjoys; perhaps, he is a Greyjoy by blood, but he is not composed of japes and compulsive lies and trickery, taking what is not his. He is not a Stark either—he has lived with them for years and years, but Theon will never be a Stark. Robb always reminds him of that.

"They've had you longer than I have, boy. Who's to say that you're not one of them now? By name, by blood, you are one of us; by quite everything else, you are the enemy."

Theon takes a deep breath, and forgets about everything he has learned from the Starks—concealing anger under pretenses and smiles will get you nowhere in the Seven Kingdoms. "You act as though I had a choice in the matter, as though I willingly obliged to be a ward under House Stark. You're the one who gave me away! Like I was some sort of wretched animal that you were tired of! And now you call me one of them when I've come home!" His words are filled with rage and cruelty and truth. Perhaps he is a Greyjoy after all. "Do you know what it's like, to be called lucky to be a prisoner—to hear every day how much you owe them? And then go back to your father, to the person who gave you away; you're just like the rest, aren't you?"

"You are no man, you are no proven warrior—you have been outside of these castle walls, yes, but you may not speak to your father, to your King in any such manner!" The slap doesn't hurt as much as the words, but Theon does not let the words affect him; he has heard thousands of hurtful words, and the ones coming from a distant figure that he only remembers through history books are not the worst of the lot. Not by far.

.

Theon is aware of the facts—

He cannot stand for House Stark and House Greyjoy too; there is a man who he considers to be his brother, and there is the family that gave him away like he was a stupid dog, but they are his family nonetheless. Iron blood runs through their veins, nothing of stardust and humility—the Greyjoys take what is theirs, and they also take what is not theirs; he stands, debating options.

_You are a coward. Weak. You are not a Stark. You're not one of us. This isn't your house. And what have they given back to me—a weak boy pretending to be a man? _The words echo in his ears, pounding, and Theon screams into the cavernous expanse.

He makes his choice, and stands by it—

And chooses wrong.

.

Theon stands upon the brick ledge, sword gripped in right hand (it is better to be cruel than to be weak, and through decapitations, he has won the pride—no, not the pride—the attention of the people), gesturing violently with left, upon a courtyard of soldiers; the flicker of a yellow-orange spark lights the day, as it fades into night, and he gleams because night is when they will strike.

"They say every Ironbred man is worth a dozen from the mainland. Do you think they're right? We die today, brothers." It is something of the inspirational speeches his father made—except his father was a failure. He will not be. "We die building from a hundred wounds with arrows in our heads and spears in our guts; but our warcries will echo through eternity. They will sing about the Battle of Winterfell. until the Iron Islands have slipped beneath the waves. Every man, woman, and child will know who we were and how long we stood. Iron-born warriors will cry out our names. Mothers will name their sons for us. What is dead may never die!"

He's not Theon Greyjoy anymore—it was a name for a lord; he used to be part of a House that he was never a part of, and even that seems better than this. He raises a hand, eyes crazed with insanity and bloodlust—the soldier behind him, gaunt face (like his father), and hardened face shoves a sword into his guts and he falls to the ground.

(Like father, like son.)


End file.
